seven glorious epistles. Take a heartful of love and gratitude from both
of us. Remember us most affectionately to your Mother and Mary. Write
again soon, I pray you, but always to _Brown, Shipley and Co._ Stir up
Jim Putnam to write when he can, and believe me, lovingly yours,
Wm. James.
_To Mrs. Glendower Evans._
[Dictated to Mrs. James]
COSTEBELLE, HYÈRES, _Jan. 17, 1900_.
DEAR BESSIE,--Don't think that this is the first time that my spirit has
turned towards you since our departure. Away back in Nauheim I began
meaning to write to you, and although that meaning was "fulfilled" long
before you were born, in Royce's Absolute, yet there was a hitch about
it in the finite which gave me perplexity. I think that the real reason
why I kept finding myself able to dictate letters to other persons--not
many, 't is true--and yet postponing ever until next time my letter unto
you, was that my sense of your value was so much greater than almost
anybody else's--though I wouldn't have anything in this construed
prejudicial to Fanny Morse. Bowed as I am by the heaviest of matrimonial
chains, ever dependent for expression on Alice here, how can my spirit
move with perfect spontaneity, or "voice itself" with the careless
freedom it would wish for in the channels of its choice? I am sure you
understand, and under present conditions of communication anything more
explicit might be imprudent.
She has told you correctly all the outward facts. I feel within a week
past as if I might really be taking a turn for the better, and I know
you will be glad.
I have, in the last days, gone so far as to read Royce's book[28] from
cover to cover, a task made easy by the familiarity of the thought, as
well as the flow of the style. It is a charming production--it is odd
that the adjectives "charming" and "pretty" emerge so strongly to
characterize my impression. R. has got himself much more organically
together than he ever did before, the result being, in its _ensemble_, a
highly individual and original _Weltanschauung_, well-fitted to be the
storm-centre of much discussion, and to form a wellspring of suggestion
and education for the next generation of thought in America. But it
makes youthful anew the paradox of philosophy--so trivial and so
ponderous at once. The book leaves a total effect on you like a
picture--a summary impression of charm and grace as light as a breath;
yet to bring forth that light nothing less than Royce's enormous organic
temperament and technical equipment, and preliminary attempts, were
required. The book consolidates an impression which I have never before
got except by glimpses, that Royce's system is through and through to be
classed as a light production. It is a charming, romantic sketch; and it
is only by handling it after the manner of a sketch, keeping it within
sketch technique, that R. can make it very impressive. In the few places
where he tries to grip and reason close, the effect is rather
disastrous, to my mind. But I do think of Royce now in a more or less
settled way as primarily a sketcher in philosophy. Of course the
sketches of some masters are worth more than the finished pictures of
others. But stop! if this was the kind of letter I meant to write to
you, it is no wonder that I found myself unable to begin weeks ago. My
excuse is that I only finished the book two hours ago, and my mind was
full to overflowing.
Next Monday we are expecting to move into the neighboring Château de
Carqueiranne, which my friend Professor Richet of Paris has offered
conjointly to us and the Fred Myerses, who will soon arrive. A whole
country house in splendid grounds and a perfect Godsend under the
conditions. If I can only bear the talking to the Myerses without too
much fatigue! But that also I am sure will come. Our present situation
is enviable enough. A large bedroom with a balcony high up on the vast
hotel façade; a terrace below it graveled with white pebbles containing
beds of palms and oranges and roses; below that a downward sloping
garden full of plants and winding walks and seats; then a wide hillside
continuing southward to the plain below, with its gray-green olive
groves bordered by great salt marshes with salt works on them, shut in
from the sea by the causeways which lead to a long rocky island, perhaps
three miles away, that limits the middle of our view due south, and
beyond which to the East and West appears the boundless Mediterranean.
But delightful as this is, there is no place like home; Otis Place is
better than Languedoc and Irving Street than Provence. And I am sure,
dear Bessie, that there is no maid, wife or widow in either of these
countries that is half as good as you. But here I must absolutely stop;
so with a good-night and a happy New Year to you, I am as ever,
affectionately your friend,
Wm. James.
_To Dickinson S. Miller._
[Dictated to Mrs. James]
HOTEL D' ALBION,
COSTEBELLE, HYÈRES, _Jan. 18, 1900_.
DARLING MILLER,--Last night arrived your pathetically sympathetic letter
in comment on the news you had just received of my dropping out for the
present from the active career. I want you to understand how deeply I
value your unflagging feeling of friendship, and how much we have been
touched by this new expression of it.... My strength and spirits are
coming back to me with the open-air life, and I begin to feel quite
differently towards the future. Even if this amelioration does not
develop fast, it is a check to the deterioration, and shows that
curative forces are still there. I look perfectly well at present, and
that of itself is a very favorable sign. In a couple of weeks I mean to
begin the Gifford lectures, writing, say, a page a day, and having all
next year before me empty, am very likely to get, at any rate, the first
course finished. A letter from Seth last night told me that the
Committee [on the Gifford Lectureship] had refused my resignation and
simply shoved my appointment forward by one year. So be of good cheer,
Miller; we shall yet fight the good fight, sometimes side by side,
sometimes agin one another, as merrily as if no interruption had
occurred. Show this to Harry, to whom his mother will write today.
We enjoyed Royce's visit very much, and yesterday I finished reading his
book, which I find perfectly charming as a composition, though as far as
cogent reasoning goes, it leaks at every joint. It is, nevertheless, a
big achievement in the line of philosophic fancy-work, perhaps the most
important of all except religious fancy-work. He has got himself
together far more intricately than ever before, and ought, after this,
to be recognized by the world according to the measure of his real
importance. To me, however, the book has brought about a curious
settlement in my way of classing Royce. In spite of the great technical
freight he carries, and his extraordinary mental vigor, he belongs
essentially among the lighter skirmishers of philosophy. A sketcher and
popularizer, not a pile-driver, foundation-layer, or wall-builder.
Within his class, of course, he is simply magnificent. It all goes with
his easy temperament and rare good-nature in discussion. The subject is
not really vital to him, it is just fancy-work. All the same I do hope
that this book and its successor will prove a great ferment in our
philosophic schools. Only with schools and living masters can philosophy
_bloom_ in a country, in a generation.
No more, dear Miller, but endless thanks. All you tell me of yourself
deeply interests me. I am deeply sorry about the eyes. Are you sure it
is not a matter for glasses? With much love from both of us. Your ever
affectionate,
W. J.
_To Francis Boott._
[Dictated to Mrs. James]
CHÂTEAU DE CARQUEIRANNE, _Jan. 31, 1900_.
DEAR OLD FRIEND,--Every day for a month past I have said to Alice,
"Today we must get off a letter to Mr. Boott"; but every day the
available strength was less than the call upon it. Yours of the 28th
December reached us duly at Rye and was read at the cheerful little
breakfast table. I must say that you are the only person who has caught
the proper tone for sympathizing with an invalid's feelings. Everyone
else says, "We are glad to think that you are by this time in splendid
condition, richly enjoying your rest, and having a great success at
Edinburgh"--this, where what one craves is mere pity for one's unmerited
sufferings! _You_ say, "it is a great disappointment, more I should
think than you can well bear. I wish you could give up the whole affair
and turn your prow toward home." That, dear Sir, is the proper note to
strike--la voix du coeur qui seul au coeur arrive; and I thank you for
recognizing that it is a case of agony and patience. I, for one, should
be too glad to turn my prow homewards, in spite of all our present
privileges in the way of simplified life, and glorious climate. What
wouldn't I give at this moment to be partaking of one of your recherchés
déjeuners à la fourchette, ministered to by the good Kate. From the bed
on which I lie I can "sense" it as if present--the succulent roast pork,
the apple sauce, the canned asparagus, the cranberry pie, the dates, the
"To Kalon,"[29]--above all the _rire en barbe_ of the ever-youthful
host. Will they ever come again?
Don't understand me to be disparaging our present meals which, cooked by
a broadbuilt sexagenarian Provençale, leave nothing to be desired.
Especially is the fish good and the artichokes, and the stewed lettuce.
Our _commensaux_, the Myerses, form a good combination. The house is
vast and comfortable and the air just right for one in my condition,
neither relaxing nor exciting, and floods of sunshine.
Do you care much about the war? For my part I think Jehovah has run the
thing about right, so far; though on utilitarian grounds it will be very
likely better if the English win. When we were at Rye an interminable
controversy raged about a national day of humiliation and prayer. I
wrote to the "Times" to suggest, in my character of traveling American,
that both sides to the controversy might be satisfied by a service
arranged on principles suggested by the anecdote of the Montana settler
who met a grizzly so formidable that he fell on his knees, saying, "O
Lord, I hain't never yet asked ye for help, and ain't agoin' to ask ye
for none now. But for pity's sake, O Lord, don't help the bear." The
solemn "Times" never printed my letter and thus the world lost an
admirable epigram. You, I know, will appreciate it.
Mrs. Gibbens speaks with great pleasure of your friendly visits, and I
should think you might find Mrs. Merriman good company. I hope you are
getting through the winter without any bronchial trouble, and I hope
that neither the influenza nor the bubonic plague has got to Cambridge
yet. The former is devastating Europe. If you see dear Dr. Driver, give
him our warmest regards. One ought to stay among one's own people. I
seem to be mending--though very slowly, and the least thing knocks me
down. This noon I am still in bed, a little too much talking with the
Myerses yesterday giving me a strong pectoral distress which is not yet
over. This dictation begins to hurt me, so I will stop. My spirits now
are first-rate, which is a great point gained.
Good-bye, dear old man! We both send our warmest love and are, ever
affectionately yours,
Wm. James.
_To Hugo Münsterberg._
CARQUEIANNE, _March 13, 1900_.
DEAR MÜNSTERBERG,--Your letter of the 7th "ult." was a most delightful
surprise--all but the part of it which told of your being ill again--and
of course the news of poor Solomons's death was a severe shock.... As
regards Solomons, it is pathetically tragic, and I hope that you will
send me full details. There was something so lonely and self-sustaining
about poor little S., that to be snuffed out like this before he had
fairly begun to live in the eyes of the world adds a sort of tragic
dramatic unity to his young career. Certainly the _keenest_ intellect we
ever had, and one of the loftiest characters! But there was always a
mysterious side to me about his mind: he appeared so critical and
destructive, and yet kept alluding all the while to ethical and
religious ideals of his own which he wished to live for, and of which he
never vouchsafed a glimpse to anyone else. He was the only student I
have ever had of whose criticisms I felt afraid: and that was partly
because I never quite understood the region from which they came, and
with the authority of which he spoke. His surface thoughts, however, of
a scientific order, were extraordinarily _treffend_ and clearly
expressed; in fact, the way in which he went to the heart of a subject
in a few words was masterly. Of course he must have left, apart from his
thesis, a good deal of MS. fit for publication. I have not seen our
philosophical periodicals since leaving home. Have any parts of his
thesis already appeared? If not, the whole thing should be published as
"Monograph Supplement" to the "Psychological Review," and his papers
gone over to see what else there may be. An adequate obituary of him
ought also to be written. Who knew him most intimately? I think the
obituary and a portrait ought also to be posted in the laboratory. Can
you send me the address of his mother?--I think his father is dead. I
should also like to write a word about him to Miss S----, if you can
give me her address. If we had foreseen this early end to poor little
Solomons, how much more we should have made of him, and how considerate
we should have been!
It pleases me much to think of so many other good young fellows, as you
report them, in the laboratory this year. How many candidates for Ph.D.?
How glad I am to be clear of those examinations, certainly the most
disagreeable part of the year's work....
_To George H. Palmer._
CARQUEIRANNE, _Apr. 2, 1900_.
GLORIOUS OLD PALMER,--I had come to the point of feeling that my next
letter _must_ be to you, when in comes your delightful "favor" of the
18th, with all its news, its convincing clipping, and its enclosures
from Bakewell and Sheldon. I have had many impulses to write to
Bakewell, but they have all aborted--my powers being so small and so
much _in Anspruch genommen_ by correspondence already under way. I judge
him to be well and happy. What think you of his wife? I suppose she is
no relation of yours. I shouldn't think any of your three candidates
would do for that conventional Bryn Mawr. She stoneth the prophets, and
I wish she would get X---- and get stung. He made a _deplorable_
impression on me many years ago. The only comment _I_ heard when I gave
my address there lately (the last one in my "Talks") was that A---- had
hoped for something more technical and psychological! Nevertheless, some
good girls seem to come out at Bryn Mawr. I am awfully sorry that Perry
is out of place. Unless he gets something good, it seems to me that we
ought to get him for a course in Kant. He is certainly the soundest,
most normal all-round man of our recent production. Your list for next
year interests me muchly. I am glad of Münsterberg's and Santayana's new
courses, and hope they'll be good. I'm glad you're back in Ethics and
glad that Royce has "Epistemology"--portentous name, and small result,
in my opinion, but a substantive _discipline_ which ought, _par le temps
qui court_, to be treated with due formality. I look forward with
eagerness to his new volume.[30] What a colossal feat he has performed
in these two years--all thrown in by the way, as it were.
Certainly Gifford lectures are a good institution for stimulating
production. They have stimulated me so far to produce two lectures of
wishy-washy generalities. What is that for a "showing" in six months of
absolute leisure? The second lecture used me up so that I must be off a
good while again.
No! dear Palmer, the best I can possibly hope for at Cambridge after my
return is to be able to carry one half-course. So make all calculations
accordingly. As for Windelband, how can I ascertain anything except by
writing to him? I shall see no one, nor go to any University
environment. My impression is that we must go in for budding genius, if
we seek a European. If an American, we can get a _sommité_! But who? in
either case? Verily there is room at the top. S---- seems to be the
only Britisher worth thinking of. I imagine we had better train up our
own men. A----, B----, C----, either would no doubt do, especially A----
if his health improves. D---- is our last card, from the point of view
of policy, no doubt, but from that of inner organization it seems to me
that he may have too many points of coalescence with both Münsterberg
and Royce, especially the latter.
The great event in my life recently has been the reading of Santayana's
book.[31] Although I absolutely reject the platonism of it, I have
literally squealed with delight at the imperturbable perfection with
which the position is laid down on page after page; and grunted with
delight at such a thickening up of our Harvard atmosphere. If our
students now could begin really to understand what Royce means with his
voluntaristic-pluralistic monism, what Münsterberg means with his
dualistic scientificism and platonism, what Santayana means by his
pessimistic platonism (I wonder if he and Mg. have had any close
mutually encouraging intercourse in this line?), what I mean by my crass
pluralism, what you mean by your ethereal idealism, that these are so
many religions, ways of fronting life, and worth fighting for, we should
have a genuine philosophic universe at Harvard. The best condition of it
would be an open conflict and rivalry of the diverse systems. (Alas!
that I should be out of it, just as my chance begins!) The world might
ring with the struggle, if we devoted ourselves exclusively to
belaboring each other.
I now understand Santayana, the man. I never understood him before. But
what a perfection of rottenness in a philosophy! I don't think I ever
knew the anti-realistic view to be propounded with so impudently
superior an air. It is refreshing to see a representative of moribund
Latinity rise up and administer such reproof to us barbarians in the
hour of our triumph. I imagine Santayana's _style_ to be entirely
spontaneous. But it has curious classic echoes. Whole pages of pure Hume
in style; others of pure Renan. Nevertheless, how fantastic a
philosophy!--as if the "world of values" _were_ independent of
existence. It is only as _being_, that one thing is better than another.
The idea of darkness is as good as that of light, as ideas. There is
more value in light's _being_. And the exquisite consolation, when you
have ascertained the badness of all fact, in knowing that badness is
inferior to goodness, to the end--it only rubs the pessimism in. A man
whose egg at breakfast turns out always bad says to himself, "Well, bad
and good are not the same, anyhow." That is just the trouble! Moreover,
when you come down to the facts, what do your harmonious and integral
ideal systems prove to be? in the concrete? Always things burst by the
growing content of experience. Dramatic unities; laws of versification;
ecclesiastical systems; scholastic doctrines. Bah! Give me Walt Whitman
and Browning ten times over, much as the perverse ugliness of the latter
at times irritates me, and intensely as I have enjoyed Santayana's
attack. The barbarians are in the line of mental growth, and those who
do insist that the ideal and the real are dynamically continuous are
those by whom the world is to be saved. But I'm nevertheless delighted
that the other view, always existing in the world, should at last have
found so splendidly impertinent an expression among ourselves. I have
meant to write to Santayana; but on second thoughts, and to save myself,
I will just ask you to send him this. It saves him from what might be
the nuisance of having to reply, and on my part it has the advantage of
being more free-spoken and direct. He is certainly an _extraordinarily
distingué_ writer. Thank him for existing!
As a contrast, read Jack Chapman's "Practical Agitation." The other pole
of thought, and a style all splinters--but a gospel for our rising
generation--I hope it will have its effect.
Send me your Noble lectures. I don't see how you could risk it without a
MS. If you did fail (which I doubt) you deserved to. Anyhow the printed
page makes everything good.
I can no more! Adieu! How is Mrs. Palmer this winter? I hope entirely
herself again. You are impartially silent of her and of my wife! The
"Transcript" continues to bless us. We move from this hospitable roof to
the hotel at Costebelle today. Thence after a fortnight to Geneva, and
in May to Nauheim once more, to be reëxamined and sentenced by Schott.
Affectionately yours,
W. J.
_To Miss Frances R. Morse._
COSTEBELLE, _Apr. 12, 1900_.
DEAREST FANNY,--Your letters continue to rain down upon us with a
fidelity which makes me sure that, however it may once have been, _now_,
on the principle of the immortal Monsieur Perrichon, we must be firmly
rooted in your affections. You can never "throw over" anybody for whom
you have made such sacrifices. All qualms which I might have in the
abstract about the injury we must be inflicting on so busy a Being by
making her, through our complaints of poverty, agony, and exile, keep us
so much "on her mind" as to tune us up every two or three days by a long
letter to which she sacrifices all her duties to the family and state,
disappear, moreover, when I consider the character of the letters
themselves. They are so easy, the facts are so much the immediate
out-bubblings of the moment, and the delicious philosophical reflexions
so much like the spontaneous breathings of the soul, that the _effort_
is manifestly at the zero-point, and into the complex state of affection
which necessarily arises in you for the objects of so much loving care,
there enter none of those curious momentary arrows of impatience and
vengefulness which might make others say, if they were doing what you do
for us, that they wished we were dead or in some way put beyond reach,
so that our eternal "appeal" might stop. No, Fanny! we have no repinings
and feel no responsibilities towards you, but accept you and your
letters as the gifts you are. The infrequency of our answering proves
this fact; to which you in turn must furnish the correlative, if the
occasion comes. On the day when you temporarily hate us, or don't "feel
like" the usual letter, don't let any thought of inconsistency with your
past acts worry you about not taking up the pen. Let us go; though it be
for weeks and months--I shall know you will come round again. "Neither
heat nor frost nor thunder shall ever do away, I ween, the marks of that
which once hath been." And to think that you should never have spent a
night, and only once taken a meal, in our house! When we get back, we
must see each other daily, and may the days of both of us be right long
in the State of Massachusetts! Bless her!